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500 recommended it to the acceptance of the youth of Great Britain. There was nothing, as this gentleman observed, in the race itself, for the horses passed by like a flash of lightning; and, except in very extraordinary cases, it was very difficult to determine which was the winner. “How did Mr. Larke come to know so much about it?” was the pithy question addressed by Miss Caroline to Miss Matilda Crabb. Possibly, it might have been by a perusal of the public journals. None of the ladies could possibly understand what interest attached to a game played with thimbles—except when these implements of industry were employed in appropriate labour, and worn upon the taper fingers of the parties who rule the lords of the creation.

There was, however, something about the turn which the conversation had taken which had aroused the suspicions of the three maiden ladies of whom favourable mention has been made. Whether it was that they were, very naturally, irritated at the shameless manner in which the younger guests excluded them from their confidence, or whether it was that there were in reality some unusual symptoms of secret understanding amongst the serious, it is hard to say; but the Misses Crabb felt that something was wrong. It seemed at first sight impossible that their confidence could be so basely betrayed—human nature, bad as it was, could not be so bad as to admit of the supposition that the gentlemen now assembled under the sacred roof-tree of Lorenzo Lodge should ever have attended, or could ever be meditating attendance, at Epsom Downs on the Derby Day. The three ladies in concert applied the epithet “disgusting” to the conduct of Isabella Winterbottom and Rosa Bliss; but as this was beyond cure, they resolved at least, if yet possible, to take pledges from fate against further misfortune. Would it not be a bright idea to invite the company now assembled at Mrs. Winterbottom’s to take tea at Mould Lodge on the Derby Day? The invitation was given and accepted—for save in so far that the returning throng might cause some disquiet, if not delay, to the company, the guests at Lorenzo Villa that night would never have dreamed of mentioning the Derby Day as a reason which could at all influence their conduct.

Still it was very odd that Miss Sophia Crabb distinctly heard Mr. Larke’s whisper to Mr. Ball that he would be answerable for the cold chicken and salad, if Mr. Ball would undertake the responsibility of the champagne. It was also curious that the senior partner should offer a suggestion as to some more generous fluid to keep the night air out. Whatever suspicions might have been excited by these words ought however to have been allayed by the assurance given by the various gentlemen as to the onerous nature of their engagements on that very day. Mr. Ball, as usual, was to go upon his annual visit to Essex. Mr. Toddle was, if his health permitted, to spend the morning with the Home Secretary, in close conclave about the Coal Dues, and as for Mr. Larke, all the legal business of London seemed to devolve upon his shoulders on that unlucky day. Young Fred Ball was to be kept close at work in the office, although Miss R. Bliss gave him a look which seemed to imply that she scarcely attached implicit credit to his statement “that he would not for the world be absent from the office upon so interesting an occasion, for they would have to square accounts with Tubbs and Chaldrons upon that very day!” It was young Mr. Charles Hicks’ intention to spend the day with his aunt. Poor lady! she had been a great invalid of late, and it was a comfort to her when her nephew could devote an afternoon to her sick room. Orange wine and cribbage rewarded his exertions in the evening.

One thing only was clear, the engagements which all the gentlemen present had taken upon themselves for the 23rd of May, next ensuing, were of so onerous a character that it could only be by exertions of the most extraordinary description that they would be able to present themselves at 9 in the hospitable drawing-room at Mould Lodge, Clapham. Mr. Ball, indeed, had so much work on hand in the neighbourhood of Watford that he was more than doubtful if he would be able to avail himself of the 8 up-train—but as the Misses Crabb were well aware, business must be attended to before all things—a proposition to which these ladies gave their formal, and not altogether unsarcastic assent.

As the Misses Crabb were enveloping their stately forms in the usual wraps which were intended to protect them from the inclemency of the weather—the front door being open—they distinctly heard voices of persons conversing together in the little garden in front of Lorenzo Villa—the voices were those of Messrs. Toddle and Ball, of Mr. C. Hicks, and of Mr. J. Larke. Something was said about a certain Captain O’Rourke, and how a certain arrangement—not impossibly a social one—would be incomplete without the presence of that gentleman. Mr. Larke, in a sepulchral, and heart-broken tone of voice, intimated that it had been made all square with the Count, and that that nobleman would turn up at the Bridge foot.

Miss Matilda. “Did you hear, my loves?”

Miss Sophia. “I did. I did.”

Miss Caroline. “Men are all deceitful—all—but Mr. Larke—at least, I had hoped so.”

The gentlemen who were waiting in the garden, with an exaggerated degree of courtesy handed the ladies into the fly which was to convey them back to Mould Lodge—and so they parted under engagement to re-assemble at that mansion between 9 and 10 at latest, on that day week.

Derby Day—the Derby Day—the great holiday of hard-working England! We have not as many Saints Days as they have in continental countries; but we do our best to cram all the fun of the year into eighteen hours, and we generally succeed. From the Premier down to the poor Cabby we all own the influence of the time. Cares, anxieties, and worries for the space of one day are consigned to the vasty deep. Upon that day all Blue Devils commit suicide. Creditors are not. Bills of Exchange and Promissory Notes